


Learning

by affluent_absolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dialogue, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans Character, nonbinary main character (implied), slight angst with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8666689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affluent_absolution/pseuds/affluent_absolution
Summary: John's been acting weird. Sherlock is confused. Cuteness ensues.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote different parts at different times so sorry if it doesn't make sense hmu in the comments if stuff needs to be fixed thx  
> i have to beta ^^^obvi if anyone wants the job ^w^

 After several months of not dating, John went out on a new date. It was strange, though. Sherlock could tell that much. He catalogued John from his place, lying down and wrapped in his blue dressing gown on the sofa. John was wearing a white v-neck vest that Sherlock had never seen and tighter fitting denims than usual. He had taken more time with his hair than usual. He looked good. Very good, in fact. He didn’t have his usual date shoes on, which was another confusing factor. They were far more casual.

“Sherlock? I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”

Sherlock grunted, huffed, and flipped over on the couch to face the inside cushions, whipping his dressing gown tighter around him. “I’m going out later. Feel free to bring her home. I won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.” His words were muffled by the cushions, but he was nearly certain John could make them out. This was confirmed when John responded.

“I might, yeah. Not sure yet.”

Sherlock heard the door shut and flung himself onto his back. He wasn’t going out, of course. No need. What he needed was more data. John was going out dressed for strange, informal sort of date, and was unsure yet if he might bring the woman he was meeting home. Unless this wasn’t a formal date? The very idea seemed improbable. John despised most bars and clubs were wholly out of the question. He much preferred a quiet restaurant- though he actually preferred a casual place more the level of Speedy’s or Angelo’s- that was perfect for close conversation and delicate flirting. Dull. At least, dull that John repeated his dates with incredibly boring women with the exact same tactics. Tactics that awarded him between one and a few nights in bed and as many dates before they left for one stupid reason or another. Sherlock could never keep track, really. He thought John had been improving in the last few months when he hadn’t dated at all, as far as Sherlock was aware. And he was very aware. He sighed. He had no way of measuring how soon or late John would be home because it was so out of the ordinary. Usually, he would be home in between two and a half and three and a quarter hours. Interestingly, if there was sex, John either didn’t come home at all or came home closer to the two hour mark.

Begrudgingly, Sherlock stood and went to make tea. While banging around the suffering through John’s organization of the kitchen, he developed a hypothesis. If John had gone to a bar, he mused while putting the kettle on the burner, he would probably come home slightly before the two hour mark. John was attractive, he could easily pull several women in that time frame if he tried. Given the bar’s loud music and high volume of intoxicated individuals, there would be little to no conversation. John would be able to drink, pull, decide, flirt, chat briefly, call a cab, and get home within two hours. John probably wouldn’t want to stay at a bar for much longer than two hours anyway. He didn’t like anywhere that was very loud and especially didn’t like any places full of college students making bad decisions. Sherlock had a personal theory that given the right conditions, John could quite enjoy a club scene. He thought John must have frequented them in uni, when he could stand the noise and rowdiness.

He took his tea back to the sofa and sipped it, stewing over John’s mystery outing. He briefly considered texting Mycroft for CCTV footage, but dismissed the idea as quickly as he thought of it. He ended up leaving half a mug of cold tea on the coffee table and going to lock himself in his room. It was nearing an hour and a half after John had left, and he didn’t want to get caught out if John came home with the woman.

Twenty six minutes later, the door crashed open and two sets of feet made their way through the flat. Sherlock listened, cringing at the edges of his consciousness. The footsteps were frantic, and whispers were exchanged between the two. Their voices grew a little louder as they passed Sherlock’s room, and he could make out the conversation.

“My flatmate’s out. It’s fine.”

“You’re sure? I don’t want to-”

“It’s fine. He wouldn’t be like- like that, anyway. I can’t imagine him caring.”

There was a pause.

“Do you know when he’s going to be back?”

“He said tomorrow afternoon. Probably longer than that, knowing him.”

Another pause, shorter.

“Alright. Where’s your bedroom?” The playful quality of the voice that had been present in the whispers had returned.

“Upstairs,” John said, and the footsteps in the same frantic beat made their way up the stairs and into John’s bedroom.

Sherlock laid back and tried to tune out the noises coming from upstairs. They weren’t important anyway. He had all that he needed. The voice wasn’t a typical female voice. It seemed artificially high, but wouldn’t appear so to an untrained ear. There was a deeper undertone to it not usually prevalent in female voices. The footsteps were another fact to consider. John’s was distinctive- medium tread, slight leftover limp occasionally audible. But the other pair was heavier than a typical woman’s footsteps would be, and again almost artificially created, like she was putting extra care into seeming feminine. The footsteps wouldn’t seem strange to anyone else, but to Sherlock it provided a crucial yet frustrating piece of information. It told him loads about the woman John had brought home, but he didn’t quite know what those loads were. Perhaps an illness in her youth? But he wasn’t sure what illness could account for both the voice and the tread. Perhaps she was just slightly sick and the tread was just natural? He assumed growing up with brothers would contribute to a more male-patterned complex of behaviors while young, which could then be artificially covered by imitating girls in school. It made sense, he supposed. She simply had a cold and a few brothers. It was a simple, believable explanation. But it didn’t explain why John had to meet her at a bar. Or the conversation- he’d nearly forgotten about the conversation. She’d cut off her sentence about not wanting to do something. Intrude, probably. But John’s response suggested something else. He wasn’t what? Or better, John couldn’t imagine him being what? Annoyed that he had a woman over? Angry? He’d said explicitly that it was fine. Why would John need to imagine?

He sighed, expelling his frustration forcefully from his lungs. He turned over on his side and whipped his dressing gown around him. Perhaps he could glean more in the morning.

-

When Sherlock awoke the next day, it was to the sound of voices in the kitchen. He listened to the conversation, hoping for more clues about the mystery woman.

“So you’re in uni, right?”

“Graduate school. Not quite uni. I’m a bit old for it, too. Everyone else is in their twenties or early thirties. I’m fortyish, you know, so I stick out like, well- like me, I suppose.”

John laughed. Warm, kind. “Better than me. Though I’ve always fit in. Wouldn’t know what it’s like to stick out, really. Except after the war, but that’s for another time.”

“I imagine that was hard.” Her voice was kind, almost understanding. Not like someone who was completely ignorant and thought that it didn’t affect John at all. He hadn’t heard that quality in anyone’s voice, including his own. He’d stayed well enough away from the topic for fear of saying something rude or insensitive unintentionally. Even so, Sherlock knew what would come next.

“Was, yeah.” Sherlock could practically hear John’s awkward glance down and strained inhale. “So you work as-?”

“A professor. Gender Studies, mostly, but I’ve always had a soft spot for science.”

“What field? Medical’s my preference, obviously.”

“LIfe and natural, I suppose. A bit of physical. I always loved learning about environments and food webs. I think my dream house is a tree house with a billion pulleys and levers everywhere. A perfect marriage of life and physical science.”

Sherlock stopped listening. He had heaps of new information. She wasn’t completely dull. Mostly, but she at least had a few things in common with John. But he hadn’t known them last night because they were talking about them now. What had they talked about last night that justified sleeping with each other? And not only that, but morning conversation over breakfast? It had to be significant, obvious, and short. Not army because she had asked about that. Not a doctor, because she had talked about that recently. Perhaps it had been the cliche, “I hate places like this,” and they had both decided to slip out, deeming each other attractive? Sherlock would have more information if he could see her, but he had told John he would be out until this afternoon and he’d rather like to avoid the fuss John would put up about him lying and overhearing. John was rather personal about things like this.

He laid, thinking and listening, until the woman left, and John with her. That too was strange. Wasn’t a typical one-night stand meant to sneak out in the early hours? It made sense for John to make her breakfast because of who John was, but leaving with her? Beyond that, there was still the remaining mystery of why John had decided to sleep with her. He waited four minutes and slipped out of his room to make toast. He was actually a little hungry. John arrived back at the flat forty minutes later- an addition to the long list of odd things about the whole encounter.

“You’re back early. And eating. Where’ve you been?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Catching up with the homeless network. I hadn’t talked to most of them in a few months. Good to stay up to date.”

John nodded. Awkward. Wants to tell something, but doesn’t know how to say it. It’s the same face he has every time he has tough news. The look to the ceiling, then the floor, then folding his arms. Lip purse. Defined swallow. Next isn’t quite as visible: usually, the decision to not tell the information. It happened this time, unfortunately for Sherlock.

“How’d your date go?” In an attempt to get new information, Sherlock tried to spur along some form of conversation.

“Good. Yeah, good.” Same expression. The tell- don’t- tell expression.

“Will you be seeing her again?” Wrong thing to say. Dry laugh accompanied with the expression was never good.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I have a blog post to finish. Your inbox is bursting. Look up a case, will you?”

And John turned and left, walking to his room. He remained there until dinner.

-

Sherlock ordered Thai at seven, when John had yet to come down and Sherlock had an unsettled feeling deep in his stomach. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock came up the stairs with two bags, the smell of takeaway filling the flat. As Sherlock unpacked the boxes, John's hesitant footsteps made their way down the stairs. He padded into the kitchen and sat down.

"Thanks for ordering," he said quietly.

"Not a problem."

John selected his favorite from the array and picked at it for a few minutes. Sherlock sat across from him, picking at his own.

"I'm sorry about earlier," John said to his food.

"It's fine. I shouldn't have asked."

John clicked his chopsticks together and scraped at the side of the container. "No, I overreacted. There was nothing wrong with your question."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He'd never seen John act this sheepish about something before. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember a time when John had stormed off over something like this and then apologized with such a small stature.

Apparently, John was finally done addressing his food and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock simultaneously realized that an unreasonable span of time had gone by given the pace of the conversation.

"Sherlock? You know it's not your fault, right?"

"Of course."

John nodded. "Okay." He stabbed at his rice a few times, then looked blankly into the kitchen. "You know, I'm not really hungry. Thanks, but I'm- I'm going to go out in a minute." 

He pushed away from the table and returned to his room. Sherlock opened the paper from that morning to provide a defense for him staying at the table- and thereby gaining more information. He pondered John's stature from behind the paper but only came up with tired, irritated, and conflicted. He heard taps of soles against the floor- date shoes- and glanced up.

Blue jumper, Sherlock's favorite. Newly laundered trousers. Date shoes. Hair combed through briefly. Touch of aftershave. Tiny touch of cologne.

"Well, I'm off out," John said, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Don't wait up."

Sherlock rustled the paper and looked back down. After twenty seconds, John cleared his throat, opened the door, and shut it quietly behind him.

-

Around two in the morning, Sherlock dragged himself to bed and fell into a fitful sleep caused by not- quite- tiredness and a lingering worry about John's disposition. When he woke, John was puttering around the kitchen, making tea and breakfast. He hauled himself out of bed and listened at the door for a full minute to make sure John didn't have anyone else with him. After he's deemed it safe, he takes quiet steps out of his room, still wary of creating another disturbance like yesterday afternoon.

Instead, John greets him with a smile.

"There's water boiling, do you want tea when it's done? And I'm making toast, fancy any?"

Sherlock paused. He hadn't expected such a quick and sudden change of attitude from John. He wasn't one to object, though. He only wondered what had caused the alteration in John's tone.

"Yes, that sounds fine."

He sat down and opened the morning's paper. He didn't so much read as watch John bustle around the kitchen, pulling jars and utensils out and putting them down in their proper places, pouring water and then checking the toast over his shoulder. It caused a now-familiar warm feeling in his chest.

John put his tea down in front of him.

"Anything good?" he asked, indicating the paper. The toast popped up and John went to tend to it.

Sherlock let out a noncommittal noise. "No. Boring. World affairs. Nothing interesting."

"The blog, then?" John asked, putting a plate of toast in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't checked it."

"Your inbox won't take much more. I suppose I could clear it out-"

"No," Sherlock exclaimed, but John was grinning, joking.

"I know. I won't see anything actually interesting. I wouldn't dare. You ought to look at it, though. There's got to be something above a seven." He took a bite of his toast.

"Probably. Here." He handed a few sections of the paper to John. "World and sports."

"Oh, ta." John put the paper down and peered at it through breakfast.

Twenty minutes later, John got up to clear plates and mugs. He sat back down and skimmed the paper for a few more minutes before speaking.

"Sherlock, ah-"

"Hm?"

"Have you ever- never mind, it's stupid."

"Have I ever what?" Sherlock stopped skimming the paper and focused his attention on John. He didn't look at him, though that would provide him with more information. It would make John uncomfortable and cause him to drop the subject altogether. The change in tone- from energetic and jocular to hesitant and somber- meant this was a meaningful topic, significant. Not something that should be dropped.

"Have- have you ever been in love?"

Sherlock's heart dropped. He knew it wasn't possible, but it felt very much like that. Like the pressure balance in his chest had popped, half of it falling into his stomach. That was the cause of his good mood, then. New love. Sherlock's brain spiraled quickly through the probably soon future. More dates, more frequently. Longer dates. More sleepovers, and for longer. Holidays, for a weekend and then for a week. A cruise, perhaps. Visiting the parents. Moving in together.  _Marriage._ Sherlock's throat shuddered at the thought. And then, after a couple years of all that, no more John.

"Sherlock? Never mind, sorry."

"No," Sherlock said, perhaps a bit sharper than he had intended. He had stopped John. John had sat back down, looked at him again. But now- what to say. How to say that he was currently in love without making it obvious that it was John?

"I- you could say that." Terrible. Inaccurate. Awful. But John stayed at the table.

"Irene?"

Sherlock cursed inwardly. How could he respond to that? Obviously not. He couldn't say that though. Play it cool? Shrug it off?

"Erm, no," he said, aiming for casual and bored. He wasn't quite sure he achieved it.

John was staring at the table.

"It was a mistake starting this. I shouldn't have- stupid. Never mind."

Sherlock sucked in a breath and put down the paper. "Your new acquaintance- I understand if you want to pursue her. You're welcome to pursue serious relationships, John. If the new worry about a case is to get one in soon, I can arrange that. It's no problem."

John furrowed his brow and looked up. "New- no, it's you." His eyes widened immediately. "Oh, that- that was out loud."

Sherlock nodded. It was  _him._ Him- John was in lo- no, not possible. Why? John loved women. How could- Past tense. John had been in lo-? No, that still didn't make sense.

"Sherlock? Care to respond?"

"Sorry? I'm not sure I understand. Maybe I'm just a bit thick." His thoughts spun after the sentence. A bit thick? Was he talking out of his arse? Nothing in that sentence went together.

"Look, if it's not- if you don't- you don't have to. It's all fine. I can carry on. I've been able to for ages now."

Sherlock couldn't think of anything to say. That wasn't an answer. That was suspiciously close to an apology.

"But what do you mean to say? You keep cutting yourself off."

"God, Sherlock, I'm in love with you, okay? I didn't think I'd need to spell it out. And since that was clearly an admittance in poor taste, we can ignore it now, alright?"

Sherlock couldn't think. He wanted to. He needed to rationalize out a sentence. 

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'? Because you don't love me." John's fist clenched and unclenched on the table. Not violent- embarrassed? Was John embarrassed? Why?

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

"But what if- what if I do return?"

"Oh." John sat back and let his palms slide off the table. "Oh. Then. Then that's rather nice."

Sherlock let a smile creep up his face. John loved him. John loved  _him._ John  _loved_ him.  _John_ loved him.  _John loved him._

To his relief, a mirroring smile crept up John's face. John burst into giggles and Sherlock fell into them as well.

"God, God, you- you  _love_ me," John said between gasps for air and laughter.

"And you love  _me_ ," Sherlock said, in a similar speaking situation. 

When they were both gasping for breath and leaning over the table, tears of joy and disbelief pricking their eyes, the laughter trickled into a quieter happiness. The good humour stayed in their eyes, fixed on each other, and they both grinned intermittently, trying to school the unweildy expressions into smaller smiles that kept spreading back up and wrinkling their eyes.

"Do you- do you want to come to bed with me?" John asked. His eyebrows raised slightly, set above eyes bleeding love and hope. While the words made Sherlock's mouth go dry, his expression made Sherlock want to reach across the table and cup his face and snog him senseless, and he suddenly remembered that he could.

"It's morning," he said instead.

"So?"

Sherlock laughed. He couldn't seem to stop. "Yes. Yes, let's. Let's- yes."

John licked his lips while staring at Sherlock and Sherlock forgot to think again until John stood, as if remembering he ought to. And Sherlock's brain barely had time to reboot before John was holding his hand out to Sherlock and Sherlock took it and with a gleaming smile John led him to-

"Is your room safe?" John asked, paused in the kitchen.

"Yes."

"Well then," John said, and before Sherlock could catch up they were in his room and they weren't moving, why weren't they moving-

"Sherlock?" They were holding hands, just Sherlock's left in John's right, next to his bed. Why-?

"What? Yes, sorry. I'm a little-" he shook his head. Not overwhelmed, exactly. Disbelieving. Shocked. In shock, rather. Stunned. Yes, that was good. Fazed. "I'm still stunned."

"What, that I could love you."

"That is the only life-altering announcement that was made today, as far as I know."

"Well, I'm a bit stunned myself, you know."

"I suppose that shouldn't surprise me."

"Git," he said, but there was no heat behind it. Only a gentle fondness that still struck Sherlock's core with coils of warmth. "I was just saying it feels a bit out of order. Taking you to bed before kissing you."

"Oh. I suppose, yes."  _Take me to bed. . . does he mean?_ "About the- the bed. Do you intend to- because I still don't. I still don't do  _that_."

John paused, nodded. "Alright. That's fine. But I'd still fancy a cuddle, if you'd like that?"

Sherlock praised John internally for understanding his silly, stuttering confession. "Yes, I would. Very much. Now, about the kissing?"

John giggled, and Sherlock thought, neither for the first nor the last time, that John was gorgeous. "Right. Yes."

A gentle, small, calloused hand slipped around Sherlock's jaw, a thumb drifting over his cheek while the fingers slotted into place in his hair. He swallowed and found it a bit hard to breathe as John leaned in. 

And then John's lips were on his.

And Sherlock's eyes were closed- when did they close?- and this was perfect, this was everything he'd ever had a fleeting, fearful imagined dreamscape about and  _more,_ so much more, because John's lips are thin and a little chapped but they move so smoothly, gliding and pressing just  _perfectly,_ and everything about this is  _perfect_ , and Christ, he hasn't kissed someone in ten years, what if he does something wrong? Or doesn't do something? Is he meant to be doing something now?

And then John let out a tiny whimper into Sherlock's mouth and all thoughts of doubt were banished, replaced by an answering noise.

And all too soon, John pulled back and Sherlock chased him a bit without thinking about it.

John gigglesd and Sherlock came back to himself enough to think at a basic level.

"That was-" John was speaking around a grin and Sherlock thought it was adorable. "That was fantastic. Spectacular. The best kiss I've ever had, I'll wager."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Really? Me?"

"Do you know what a difference it makes to kiss someone you love? I suppose you don't have much comparative knowledge, but it makes one. A big one."

There was a beat of silence.

"Bed?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, and then they're sitting on the bed, and John has crawled over to get to the other side and throw the covers back, and Sherlock can't be arsed to care that they're both being a bit ridiculous and they're in bed fully clothed mid-morning because they're  _together._

John threw back all the covers save for a dark blue Egyptian cotton sheet, which he draped over them as they shimmied in together. They both oriented onto their sides, and just took each other in for several long moments. And then John's hand slid over Sherlock's neck and into his hair, and Sherlock let out a breath that felt like he was relieving every painful memory into the air and filling his lungs with nothing but crystal sunshine and a new age and John.

John drew him in slowly and they kissed again, and again, and again, until they were both breathless and grinning (as if they every stopped) and Sherlock's hands had stopped being so hestitant and started to roam over John's torso.

"Okay," John said between short kisses. "I need a break to breathe."

Sherlock nodded, reluctantly, and laid back. "Do you want to talk?"

"Sure. That sounds nice." John had a hand resting on Sherlock's hip and Sherlock was hyper-conscious in the best way of its presence. He himself had a hand drifting up and down John's bicep, which was equally distracting.

"This might be a poor pillow talk topic, but your recent dates. Care to explain? I couldn’t figure them out, so that means they’re a bit out of the ordinary for you.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose I ought to explain that. The first woman I brought home was transgender, but you weren’t here for that.”

“I was.”

“Really? Christ, Sherlock. Just once-”

“I was confused. Nothing made sense about your date. I needed more data.”

John waved his hand. “Fine. Whatever. Her name was Ursula. I think if there’s one thing I’ve learned about that community, it’s that they all have brilliant names. Anyway, she was a bit younger and very pretty and it all just sort of happened. Like with any other woman, I guess. The second person, that second night, was genderfluid. They were the one that got me over it all, actually. The bisexual crisis and the- other thing. She- they, sorry- also explained the whole gender thing for me. We didn't so much y'know, do anything, as just talk. That was a really interesting conversation. Do you know about that identity?”

“No. Never needed to before.”

“There’s this whole spectrum of gender- which is very different from sex- that’s being invented with the new generation. Not invented, exactly, because you can’t invent feelings. They’re naming and normalizing the feelings. That’s a better description. So there’s a whole spectrum with a hundred percent guy in one corner and one hundred percent girl in another, and everything in between ranges from no gender to multiple genders to genderfluid, which is a fluid transition between different genders on the daily. It seems stressful to me, but they seemed very comfortable in themselves. There’s a ton more identities, too. And pronouns. They/them is the main nonbinary pronoun I learned about. Nonbinary is the stuff between guy and girl on the spectrum, by the way.”

Sherlock nodded. John seemed enthusiastic about the topic and it was one of the few subjects Sherlock had very little knowledge about. All he thought he needed to know was a basic lesson in respect: if someone wants to be called something, do it because it doesn’t affect you. The knowledge about other genders could be useful, though: he had experienced one or two deductions in his past about a victim’s gender that didn’t align with his knowledge, limited to transgender and cisgender as it was.

“There’s also weirder ones like ze with a z or xe with an x. It’s all up the person.”

“How would you identify them on a report? Like most people are mister, miss, or missus.”

“Mx.”

To Sherlock, it sounded like “mix”.

“M-x. Some people even have that written on some of their formal documentation.”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s interesting.”

“You think so?” John smiled. “I thought you’d think it irrelevant.”

“Not at all. It can actually be useful. But how’d you even find out about it all?”

“Yeah, a patient of mine introduced me to the whole scene, I guess. They came to talk to me about hormones since I’d been their GP for a few visits. They were very understanding and patient for an old codger like me. Explained the whole gender spectrum and attraction spectrum thing to me. It’s very complicated, you know. They recommended this new bar to me for people in that sort of group. I figured I could go there to learn more, from the source and individuals, not just on websites. I did. I brought home the two people, but the other times I went I was just talking to people. I reckon I made a couple new friends- first ones since uni not related to the Work, I guess. It’s all very interesting. I’m thinking about going into it, when I’m older. Work part time in retirement as a gender specialist GP. I think I could do some good in the medical field with that. A lot of people expressed their dissatisfaction and poor care they got as non-traditionally gendered people.”

“I think that’d be good. For you and for them. You could do worlds of good and learn things- and someone other than me has got to teach you things, you know.”

John smacked Sherlock’s arm playfully. “Other people teach me things, you git.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Still. I’d support you. Though I do support you completely in almost everything.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Almost?”

“I can’t condone your taste in reading material or films. I draw the line there. But everything else, I do believe.”

“Fair. The same goes for you. Not all of us consider quantum physics to be light reading.”

Sherlock huffed. “Agree to disagree. Personally, I’m knackered. Care to go to sleep?”

John grinned. “Sherlock I- don’t- need- sleep Holmes admitting he’s knackered? Can I record that?”

“Nope.” Sherlock rolled over and took John with him, so they were lying on their sides, face to face. “You do get the pleasure to sleep with me, though.”

“And what a pleasure that is,” John agreed.

-

Epilogue

It a quiet morning around the breakfast table. Sherlock was rustling the paper in disdain every few minutes between bites of toast and honey. John was editing the most recent blog post and enjoying toast with jam and tea. He finished, clicked post, and looked up at Sherlock. After a moment of hesitation, he spoke.

“I could take you there if you want. The bar, I mean. It’s pretty quiet. I don’t know if you’re than interested. They’re nice people though, all of them. You might like it. I don’t know. Never mind.”

Sherlock looked up and put his newspaper down. He studied John, head bent over his laptop, for a short moment. He wanted to go back and wanted an excuse. And honestly, Sherlock wasn’t very opposed himself.

“Of course. It’d be an interesting experience. I’d like that.”

John looked up and grinned. “Really?”

“Of course.”

-

That evening, they decided to go. John was dressed in the white vest and tighter denims again, while Sherlock had pulled a black v-neck and black skinny jeans out of the back of his closet. He didn’t even know he still owned them.

John was grinning, but suppressing it as best he could.

“Ready?” he asked. Sherlock smiled in response to John’s excitement.

“Yes,” he said.

They took a cab to the bar and John practically jumped out of the cab and ushered Sherlock toward him. The bar’s entrance was down a small flight of stairs, and John jabbered to Sherlock as they walked.

“It’s not that big, and it’s kind of shabby, but it’s really bright and everyone’s smiling and looks out for each other. You’ll like it, I promise.”

“I know I will,” Sherlock said, and stepped through the door John was holding for him.

Sherlock was immediately struck with the place. Chattering groups of smiling friends drifted around the room, from the retro jukebox to the bar to the tables. There were numerous pride flags strung up on the wall. The bartender was talking to a group of girls, not flirting, but having a conversation. Probably friends outside of the bar as well. The bar was more well-lit than most, and emptier and smaller, and it reminded Sherlock strongly of the first gay bar he had actually liked back in uni. He turned back to John, who was beaming.

“What do you think?”

“I love it,” Sherlock said. “We should come here more often.”

Before John could respond, a black woman from across the room waved. “John!” she called, and beckoned him over. John took Sherlock’s hand and led him over to the table with the woman. She was seated at a booth with four others, two men and two women. She stood as they approached and kissed John on the cheek. Sherlock observed her while they caught up. She had natural hair, but dyed bright blue in a few places. A tight green minidress highlighted her curves and drew attention away from the fact that she was slightly more muscular than most women. A pair of six inch black patent leather stilettos made her tower over John, but John didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, he seemed more comfortable with her than with people his own height. Sherlock broke out of his deductions long enough to hear John say,

“This is Sherlock, by the way. My boyfriend.”

“Oh, so this is Sherlock,” she cooed, and wrapped Sherlock in a hug before he could even stick his hand out in greeting. She stepped back before Sherlock could be uncomfortable and turned to John. “Finally got him, eh? Come on, sit down. Have you ordered? I’ll get you two something.” She stalked away from the table toward the bar and John slid into the booth, patting the seat next to him.

“That was Nezumi. She’s a drag queen. I could tell you were confused.”

“She is beautiful,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, and she’s taken, mate,” one of the women said. Sherlock looked up, startled, and the woman- long dark wavy hair, size 20, vegan leather jacket, neon orange leggings- chuckled. “I’m Jordan.” She held her hand out and Sherlock shook it. “Nezumi is my fiance, actually.”

“Congratulations,” Sherlock said, and to his own surprise, he meant it.

Nezumi returned with two drinks, both colorful cocktails that neither of them drank, but to Sherlock’s surprise- he was experiencing quite a lot of that recently- John eagerly accepted a blue drink, leaving an orangey red one for Sherlock. He sipped it experimentally to find it wasn’t all bad. A little sweeter than his usual, but it worked with the atmosphere well enough.

“Have you all had a chance to introduce yourselves? I bet you haven’t. Sherlock, this is Mark, Leén, Marzia, and Jordan.” Sherlock’s eyes flicked over and memorized each person as Nezumi introduced them.

Mark reached a hand over. “I use he/him. You?” Mark was slight, wiry and thin with a scruffy light brown beard and unkempt curly hair. A grey scoop neck hung off his shoulders, but large black gauges hung in both ears. He looked completely ordinary otherwise.

“He/him,” Sherlock said. Leén reached his large hand out next.

“I use ze/zir. As in z- e and z- i- r.”

“John explained those to me. He was very informative.” The four friends exchanged a quick glance at Sherlock didn’t understand. That, however, was not an uncommon occurrence. He turned his attention back to Leén, who was bald and stocky, with large biceps and strong jawline. A light purple sheer blouse clung to zir arms but flowed gently down zir chest and stomach, cascading over black skinny jeans.

The last one was Marzia. “I’m a demigirl,” she said over their handshake. “So I use she/her today, but occasionally I’ll use he/him. You can ask, but usually I’ll present pretty obviously.”

“And i use she/her,” Jordan said. “In case you were wondering.”

“There, wasn’t that easy?” Nezumi said. “Now we all know each other. So, John, what do you think about the cabbie strike?”

The group engaged in conversation about the cabbie strike, and then the current foreign affairs with America, then a quiz Jordan had taken that said she was the red M&M, whatever that meant. Their conversation was varied and jumped topics often, seemingly almost too quickly. But the conversation never lulled or slowed, and John took an active part in the discussion, which was a rare sight for Sherlock. Whenever he went out with John and Lestrade, there would be jerky conversation that culminated in staring at the match on the tv. But there was no tv in this bar, and Sherlock had a strong feeling that even if there was, no one would have paid attention to it. So he sipped his drink and listened to the conversation and when asked, contributed. And to his increasing contentedness, for lack of a better word, when he did speak he was listened to and respected. No one called him weird or a freak for sharing his deduction of the deciding officer at Scotland Yard during a discussion about the new police car design. Instead, Marzia called him brilliant and Nezumi said it made sense that a man who couldn’t even dress himself would design such a tacky car.

Before Sherlock knew it, it was after eleven. He nudged John.

“It’s getting late,” he said. He wasn’t particularly tired or even bored, but John liked things like proper bedtimes on work nights.

“It is?” John checked his watch. “Damn.” He turned back to the group. “I think I’ve got to go soon. Work tomorrow and all.”

As they stood, Nezumi did as well. She gave them both hugs. “Have a safe ride home you two. And John, I’ll see you back here soon, alright?”

John nodded. “Yes. Maybe Friday?”

“I’m here every night,” she said. “Now, go, I don’t want you two to be up too late.”

From the table, Sherlock heard Jordan talking to someone else in the group who presumably hadn’t been there John’s first non-pulling night.

“It’s just like the first night they were here without wanting a screw,” Jordan said. “Nezumi got all mothery, rushing them home. Didn’t want them to fall asleep at work.”

“How’d you like it, love?”

They were outside suddenly, and Sherlock was shaken out of his confusion. It was black outside, and everything was glossy from the drizzling rain that had been sprinkling the city for the past three hours; it had started just after they went into the bar. A few puddles broke up the asphalt, and the remaining sparse drops falling from the sky made John’s hair sparkle.

“I loved it. The people were lovely. It reminded me a bit of my first gay bar in uni, actually.”

“You didn’t get bored?”

“Not at all, actually.”

There was a pause. Sherlock hailed a cab and they sat a lilttle too close inside, holding hands as it sped toward Baker Street.

“What was it like? Your first gay bar, I mean. I only ever went to one as a joke and I don’t remember much of it.”

“It was interesting, I suppose.”  He squeezed John’s hand. John squeezed back. “Much busier. A lot busier. And I was in uni, so it was one full of twenty- somethings looking for a screw. Lots of attractive people, lots of people I didn’t like and who didn’t like me. Much louder and busier. But the mood was the same. It is everywhere, I think. The mood of sameness and yet uniqueness, and acceptance. In uni, it was that they were all trying to get laid. Here it’s different. Like the adult version.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

The cab stopped in front of the street and for once, Sherlock paid while John unlocked the door. They went up to the flat in silence and went through their respective bathroom routines, starting with brushing their teeth together and ending with John changing while Sherlock put expensive care products in his hair. Sherlock joined John in the bedroom clad in an inside- out old tee and pyjama trousers. John had the covers thrown back and was lying on his side. Sherlock laid down, facing John, and pulled the covers up. He stroked gently over John’s hair and let his arm rest on John’s side.

“I had a good time tonight, really. When you go back, I’d love to go with you.”

John gave him a small smile. “I’m glad. I’d like that. They all liked you too, you know.”

Sherlock nodded and paused. “Something’s bothering you.”

John shifted a little. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Two different things. And neither of which I believe.”

John smiled, tired and fond, at Sherlock. “I should know not to try and hide things from you.”

“You really should.”

“It’s stupid. Really. I shouldn’t be- anything, really. I shouldn’t feel anything about it. About you. About what you would think about it, yeah. That’s what I meant. What you would think about it. It’s nothing.” He turned onto his back and sighed. “It’s a placebo, maybe. Since I’ve been- you know. There. That’s probably all it is. Stupid.”

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow. “John, you know that I love _you,_ right? Any way you are. All the ways you are. I’m as rubbish as you are at this, you know. You know that I’ll love you no matter what, right?”

John sighed. “Yes, I know. That’s why it’s so stupid that I’m nervous.”

In the dark, Sherlock could make out John’s face. Wrinkled, distressed.

“We don’t have to talk about it. I’ll leave it, I promise.”

A small smile from John. “That means a lot coming from you. Thanks. But no, I need to say this. I just don’t know how. It’s stuck somewhere in my throat. I can’t get the words quite out.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I can’t think of it right now if there is anything.”

Sherlock nodded. “Should I tell a story? Would that help?”

“Why not? I have to find the words somewhere, and they’re not coming quickly.”

“When I was in year ten, there was a girl in my grade. No one really liked me back then, but she didn’t hate me. She’d talk to me sometimes, and that was about as good as I ever got. Had no filter back then. Less than now, if you can believe it. She was in my science class and loved chemistry almost as much as I did. Smart too; she could actually discuss complex chemical reactions with a knowledgeable basis. We had a mutual dislike of sports and the popular crowd, and a similar sense of humor. I liked her. A lot, actually. I sent her an anonymous Valentine’s card that year, but another girl in our year asked her out. She said yes.

In uni, there was a boy named Victor Trevor. He reminded me of the girl in year ten. He was a chemistry major and loved dogs as much as I do. He was one of those semi-popular types though, but there was a certain allure that he, with all his friends, was talking to me. We could just watch movies or get coffee together. He was one of the only friends I had in uni. He seemed to be interested in me, so I tried to kiss him at a party once. He was offended that I thought he was gay. He didn’t talk to me after that.”

There was a long, heavy pause.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was thick. “What was the point of that story?”

“I think- I think the point is most people think I’m strictly gay-”

“And you’re not?”

“I have slight preferences. But overall, I’m attracted to the person, not what they look like. Or present as, rather. Don’t go thinking I don’t find you attractive, because I do.”

John laughed. Quiet, but genuine. “What would you think if I painted my nails?”

Sherlock smiled to himself. He really should have connected the dots- queer bar, excitement to explain gender, diversely gendered friends, the worry about Sherlock meeting and liking them- there’s always something.

“I think pink would be nice. Or blue, that would bring out your eyes. No orange or yellow- contrasts with your undertones too much.”

John laughed loudly, but real and fraught with relief. He flung himself at Sherlock, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s torso and squeezing. He buried his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I knew you wouldn’t care,” he said, voice muffled against Sherlock’s chest. “But I was still worried. I told you it was stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Sherlock rubbed a hand up and down John’s back. “It’s very important to you. Of course I support you. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

-

Epilogue Part 2

John was already at work by the time Sherlock woke. He smiled at the note John had left for him, reminding him to eat and signed with a heart. He made toast with honey and planned his day. John would be home at five and it was ten now. If he left by eleven, he could pick up materials for his next experiment, surprise John with lunch, get his other errand down (if it could be classified as that) and get home with plenty of time to spare. He finished his toast, did his dishes- he was feeling rather fond of John today- and got ready to leave.

Tesco didn’t have test tube sets, but there were small glass Tupperware containers, and that would do. He picked up several of those, along with various cooking, baking, and home improvement liquids. The cashier gave him a strange look, but he was already thinking ahead to lunch. There was a new shop down the road from the surgery he had been meaning to take John to. Plastic bags dangling from his wrists, he hailed a cab and thought of his plan. He smiled to himself and hoped it wouldn't be too much.

No one stopped him on the way into John's office. He assumed they all knew him by now, and beyond that, they knew not to stop him. The patients looked at him, confused, but Sherlock barely saw them. He knocked on the office door and John opened it a moment later.

"What-"

"I'm taking you to lunch."

John glanced back at his work, then grabbed his jacket and gestured for Sherlock to lead. They fell into step quickly.

"What's in the bags?"

"Lab supplies. Stopped on the way over."

"Getting anything from Molly to do with it? And where are we going?"

"No, it's chemical-based. A new shop around the corner. Opened a couple weeks ago."

"Nice. Want to hear about the surgery? I know you can deduce it, but-"

"Go ahead."

John detailed a hefty traffic of colds and physicals throughout their lunch. Sherlock stole some of John's chips and John pretended to be annoyed. They laughed, and Sherlock told John about a case he had read about earlier and was considering. On the way back, John listened to Sherlock deduce passersby and halfheartedly chastised him when he revealed a scandalous detail about someone. They had reached John's office, and Sherlock turned to leave when John caught his sleeve and tugged him back.

"Hey," he said, softly. "Be careful with whatever chemicals you're messing with, alright?"

"Of course, John," Sherlock said, smiling.

"Good," John said, then tipped up on the balls of his feet and kissed Sherlock's cheek. "See you in a few hours."

"Yes," Sherlock said. He tried to fight down the colour rising to his cheeks. "See you then."

He walked back down the hall as John closed the door, grinning to himself.

The cosmetics aisle of the drugstore was overwhelming. Posters of photoshopped women were plastered everywhere, and sexy positions featuring new makeup products spilled from the sides of the aisles. But there was one specific section he was looking for: nail polish. And God, was there a lot of it. Different bottles and finishes and brands and purposes and _colours._ More colors than Sherlock knew existed. He decided John would probably prefer solid colors, so after adding a base, top, and clear coat (apparently they were all different) to his cart, he selected the most sundry rainbow of colors and placed those in the basket. Shades of purple and violet, blue and green, a burnt orange that wasn’t terrible, red and pink. A variety of neutrals as well, black and white and greys and a few tasteful pink-based beiges. Once he was satisfied, he checked out and returned home.

They didn’t have any gift wrapping tools, so Sherlock asked Mrs. Hudson, who happily gave him several rolls of wrapping paper and a motley of gift bags stuffed with tissue paper, even though he just needed the one. He took the haul back to the flat and set to work arranging and placing until he was happy. He stashed the rest of the wrapping items in John’s old bedroom- they would need them for Christmas, after all.

John returned home just after five, as Sherlock had predicted. Sherlock was in their room working on data logs for the new experiment, wary of making John uncomfortable.

“Sherlock?” John entered the room, holding the bag, tissue paper gone. “Did you- did you get all this for me?”

Sherlock looked up from his chart. “Yes. Is it- do you like it? It wasn’t too much, was it? I just wanted to-”

“It’s perfect.” John put the bag on the dresser. “Is that important?”

“I could be persuaded to come back to it later,” Sherlock said, already standing.

“Good. Because I rather fancy snogging you on the couch for the next few hours.”

“Sounds fantastic.”

They ended up ordering Chinese around six because neither of them felt the inclination to move for long enough to cook. John turned on a Bond movie to play in the background. They experimented with several different positions, mostly with one of them on top of the other in some manner. When the food arrived, they took a break, fighting over the last dumpling and exchanging pea pods for mushrooms. Even so, they sat close, shoulders and hips and thighs pressed together, and when they were both too full to move for another half hour, John leaned on Sherlock and Sherlock leaned on John, and neither of them could remember feeling more loved.

+489

Does John wear his dog tags around the flat? -Bill

Short Answer: No.

Long Answer:

Sherlock noticed something a few weeks after they had been sleeping together. Or the absence of something, rather. They hadn’t _slept_ together yet, exactly. Just sleeping. Just falling into bed together, after a case or just on a normal night, and curling around each other, and falling asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing. One night, not after a case but after a night of lazy kisses and telly. Sherlock was tucked along John’s side, legs tangled below the knee, one arm laid diagonally over John’s chest. He fingered slowly along John’s collarbone and played with the neckline of his shirt for a moment before speaking.

“Why don’t you wear your dog tags?” He looked up at John’s face, interested but without any indication of prying. If John didn’t want to talk about it, Sherlock would drop it- John could tell just from his face.

John sighed gently. “I used to. When I just met you. I don’t anymore.”

Sherlock nodded, nuzzled into John’s chest. “Why not?”

“Because back then, it felt like a war zone. Like if I died or got hurt, someone would find my body. I felt like I still needed them.”

“You never did.”

“I know that now. But then. And now I feel like I don’t need them. You’d never leave me if I was hurt, and I know that now. It doesn’t make much sense.”

“No, it does. It’s. . . sweet.”

John smiled and moved the hand that had been resting on Sherlock’s hip to stroke his hair. “It was a nice realization. I was still fresh home from the war and suddenly realized, one night, a few months ago, that I was in a different sort of war now. A war where people didn’t need to look at discs of metal to know who I was. A war that we would always win.”

Sherlock smiled and John felt it against his chest.

“You can have them, if you want. That used to be a thing with my mates in the army. Their girlfriends always liked wearing their tags.”

Sherlock sat up the smallest bit to look John properly in the face.

“Really? You’d let me?”

“Of course. There’s no better use I can think of for them, love. I can get them now, if you want.”

Sherlock shifted off John’s arm. “I won’t stop you.”

John grinned, shook his head, and got up. “You’re lucky I love you.”

A few minutes later, he returned with a clinking silver chain with two discs. Sherlock sat up in anticipation and John giggled. He unclasped the back and placed it around Sherlock’s neck. The metal was cold and felt unemotional against Sherlock’s chest. He held them in his fingers, rubbed them together, as John got back into bed and laid down. He resettled into his original position, but tucked the tags between him and John.

“That’s cold, you berk,” John said, but made no move to remove the chain.

“Won’t be in a moment,” Sherlock said, and they settled to sleep. In the morning, Sherlock would wake early with the tags fastened around his neck, warmed in the heat between their two bodies, and feel wholly, irrevocably loved.


End file.
